


Worth

by Letummordre



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Disabled Character, Dragon Age Kink Meme, Fluff, Lavellan needs a Snickers for his loneliness, M/M, Nathair Lavellan - Freeform, Some Humor, Spoilers, Trespasser DLC, a different approach from my other story, he's not himself when he's lonely, kink meme prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2015-09-10
Packaged: 2018-04-20 03:52:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4772486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Letummordre/pseuds/Letummordre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SPOILER INCLUSIVE<br/>The k!meme prompt: "So. The Inquisitor feels completely useless without the mark, post Trespasser. Everything that has made them special, worshipped and awesome is...suddenly gone. Plus, they are no longer the leader of anything. They're super self-concious that their LI won't want to be with them anymore, but that's just bananas. Their LI shows them, sexily, that they love the Inquisitor just as they are now, no matter what.</p><p>Bonus points for: hurt/comfort, angst and (eventual) happy ending. Into any pairing, with any Inquisitor." </p><p>How could Dorian, a man who lived for beauty and flaunted his own for the world to see, ever look at him again?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worth

**Author's Note:**

> The OP and several other anons really enjoyed the story, so I decided to publish. (●´ω｀●)ゞ

It had been two days since Nathair Lavellan had disbanded the Inquisition. Two days since he told Solas’ spies the truth about who he was, and watched them leave Skyhold quietly. Two days since he had given up any advantage and alliances he may have had, all to placate Orlais and Ferelden. 

For all the lives it made easier, it made his the hardest. His friends had moved on, for the most part, to find some peace since the Inquisition had ended. He was, mostly, alone. All those who had worshipped still treated him as such, though the pity in their eyes when they looked at his left hand… or lack thereof weighed heavily on his heart. 

Was he still a Herald when the mark that had made him unique was torn from him? Would they still respect him when he had given up his standing, his army, his title?

He was not the Inquisitor, or the Herald of Andraste. He was a former Dalish hunter, separated from his clan, and alone. 

Exactly where he’d _never_ wanted to be in life. 

How could Dorian, a man who lived for beauty and flaunted his own for the world to see, ever look at him again? He’d sustained scars in that fight against the Qunari, and the biggest blow to everything he knew about himself had come when his arm was taken from him at the elbow. He didn’t blame Solas for destroying his hand, no, he was grieved and angry that something that had become so a part of his identity was now suddenly missing. 

He wasn’t the person he had been when he’d come to the Winter Palace to negotiate. He no longer even felt like a person. He was a shadow. A whisper. A rumor. He wondered, briefly, if that was why the Hero of Ferelden had abruptly disappeared twelve years ago to Antiva and had never come back. Had he too felt that his story had outlived him? Had the expectations of what people thought he should be taken its toll? 

Nathair could take a leaf out of Tabris’s book and disappear, but it was a little hard to do so when the arm he’d relied on for so long to steady his bow and keep his arrow true had been stolen from him.

“You look weary,” the voice made him startle, it was too easy in his weakened state and he dropped the book he’d been idly holding in his good hand. His only hand. “Amatus.” The voice chided, coming closer and picking up the book from the floor. 

Nathair couldn’t look him in the face. He stared hard out the window into the mountains ahead. He didn’t want to see the thinly veiled disgust, the attempts to heal Nathair’s wounded pride. He would accept that he was not the man Dorian had loved. He would be strong. 

“Look at me.” Dorian’s voice was harder now, the same voice he’d used to tell Nathair he was leaving for good this time. 

“You’re leaving.” He said, his tone stone cold. 

“No. Not yet. I asked for time.” Dorian gently grasped Nathair’s shoulders, the touch to his left shoulder making him flinch. Dorian didn’t move his hand away, only tried to guide Nathair to turn to him. 

“Don’t look at me.” Nathair said, angry that his voice softened into something that wasn’t quite sorrow. Not yet. 

“Why shouldn’t I rest my eyes on such a magnificent person?” Dorian’s humor almost made him turn. Almost, but it hadn’t. 

“Don’t toy with me.” He suddenly pushed away, irrational anger flooding him like a tidal wave. “Don’t pretend to still want me.” His eyes were a light amethyst with anger. He bristled like an angry cat, storming away from the window. 

“What makes you think that I don’t still want you?” Dorian asked, his tone equally annoyed. “You think that I don’t still feel the same about you? I would be so vain as to walk away because you lost your Anchor? You’re more than a hand to me, Lavellan. You should know that better than anyone.” 

The chastising made Nathair feel like a child, and horrifyingly clearly he knew he’d been acting like one. The use of his last name had been a harsh rebuke, like he no longer knew Nathair enough to use his first name.  
Maybe he didn’t. Nathair sure as hell didn’t know who he was anymore. 

“You’re not put off?” He turned, expression carefully neutral as he looked into Dorian’s angry hazel eyes. 

“By your arm? No. By your attitude, quite possibly.” He said, giving Nathair a rather hurt look. 

He felt boneless, like all of the strength in his body left him at once. His shoulders slumped forward, and he looked down at the ground and heaved a huge sigh. 

“I have lost all use, Dorian. I can’t offer you an alliance to strengthen your place in Tevinter. My Anchor is gone, and so is all the power that came with it. I can no longer even use a bow to protect you, or myself.” He was useless now. The addition was silent, but hung heavy in the air between them. 

“I don’t care about any of that.” The magister huffed, coming forward and putting a hand around Nathair’s waist, and a hand on the area just above the thick scar that marked the end of his left arm. “You are still the man who gathered forces against all odds, who called Corypheus a coward to his face. Who befriended a crazy mage who it turns out is an elvhen god, of all things, and still stood up to him. You are still the man who stood by my side and told me that anything was possible. Who listened to me, advised me and made me speak with my father. Who gave me the chance at mending a broken relationship with him, and ultimately gave me my chance to free the slaves. You taught me how to love, even as I taught you. I didn’t think it was possible to have a true relationship. To have anything close to what we do. Nathair, you helped make me stronger.” His voice was fierce with emotion, and it warmed something within him he hadn’t felt in days. “I don’t need your hand. I need you.” Dorian finished, looking the slightest bit embarrassed at the admission. 

It was all Nathair needed to hear. 

He launched forward, pressing his lips against the mage’s with a passion words could never convey. Dorian didn’t need the words, and Nathair knew it. 

It would be hard from here on out with Dorian’s position in the magisterium… but if anyone could do it, they could. 

Dorian was mindful of his shirt, lovingly moving it off of Nathair’s bandaged limb before moving to his other arm, brushing the fabric down his body and tugging it away. It felt awkward for a moment to have his arm so exposed, but Dorian didn’t seem to mind it. Catching on to Nathair’s apprehension, he caught Nathair’s eyes and held them as he pressed a kiss to the thick scar where his limb ended. He felt some kind of odd twinge for half a moment, like his arm was there and wanted to weave his hand into Dorian’s hair… and then it was gone. 

“Does it hurt?” Dorian asked softly, obviously concerned. 

“No. But it feels… like there’s an arm sometimes. I think my body is still trying to make up for it.” He closed his eyes. 

Dorian kissed the shoulder this time, moving up to the crook of his neck. “Your body doesn’t have to make up for anything. All that truly matters is still right here.” 

Nathair felt himself smile. Truly smile, like he hadn’t in days. Weeks, months probably. 

“You closet romantic.” He accused fondly. “Next you’ll ask me to marry you, with a dozen roses littering my bed.” 

“I will have you know I am not that cliché, and there would be far more than a dozen. You have a lot to learn, amatus.” He smirked, biting at the edge of Nathair’s ear playfully in a way that set fire throughout him. 

“Then teach me.”  
__________________________________________

Elves in Tevinter were a given. No one looked twice at him passing down the street, and hardly anyone in Tevinter would have known who he was by face. The loss of the Anchor had given him anonymity, a thing he took advantage of nowadays. 

Dorian was at his window, but he was turned just enough that he did not see Nathair making his way down the street. Creeping into the shadows, he shifted around the edge of the house and noticed a window, slightly cracked open for the cool breeze. 

Oh, now this should be good. 

He crept through it, light as a feather, and pulled himself into the elegantly decorated room. Dorian hummed from the other room, a clack of a mug on stone echoed slightly. 

Nathair smirked, edging down the corridor and was almost close enough to touch when a woman shrieked loudly, causing Nathair to leap backward. He slammed into a table hard enough to lose his breath, and Dorian turned faster than he had time to think. 

“Nathair?” He asked incredulously, his eyes lighting in a mix of happiness and confusion both. The fire that had started burning in his palm extinguished immediately. 

The woman he’d heard, a pretty elf with large emerald eyes stared at him, “Master, you know this man?” She asked, her voice trembling. She’d lost an armful of the cloth she was carrying, and it crumpled on the floor in a heap. She immediately picked it up, fretting over it as she clenched it tight in her arms. 

“Oh do I.” Dorian grinned, pulling Nathair closer and stopping as he marveled at the contraption connected to Nathair’s left arm. “Amatus.” He said in awe, touching over the metal. A brief glow of magic touched his fingertips in an almost greeting, washing over the metal and vanishing as quick as it had come. 

“Do you like it?” Nathair smirked, bringing it up and curling it at the elbow like a regular arm would, the fingers of sorts clenching and unclenching. “Dagna made it for me. Said it reminded her of golems, or something like that.” 

“I could think of a lot of things we could do with that.” Dorian said suggestively, laughing as Nathair grinned and moved forward to kiss him.  
________________________________  
It was said that Dorian moved through politics with ease, his elvhen lover occasionally seen with or around him. There were whispers that he still had the Inquisition’s influence, could move troops in two days across the world to crush whoever opposed him. They said that the Inquisitor had not lost his left arm at all, but had devised magic to hide his growing power within him.

There was an even quieter rumor that Dorian had married his elvhen lover in private, under the moonlight with thousands of wildflowers in bloom around them. Whatever the truth truly was, there was no doubt that Dorian was happy for years after the magisterium had given him his position, and every assassination attempt had gone mysteriously drastically wrong. 

Change was upon the entire world, but for the former Inquisitor and his Tevinter magister their love never would.


End file.
